


Sparring Matches

by therewithasmile



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, POV Male Character, Sparring, Training, playfighting turning into kissing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-10
Updated: 2015-11-10
Packaged: 2018-05-01 00:37:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,786
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5185517
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/therewithasmile/pseuds/therewithasmile
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When she asked Cullen for help, the last thing he expected was that she wanted to learn swordplay. But who was he to refuse - with that sparkling grin, the leaf in her hair, that look in her eyes... </p><p>(Prompt: semi-serious playfights that end with one person pinned to the floor/wall and accidental furious kissing tho)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sparring Matches

**Author's Note:**

> First time posting on AO3. Yikes - what am I doing? 
> 
> I have a fanfiction account too, but I will slowly be moving them all over to here as I get used to the format. I also have a tumblr where I take requests and post more drabbles and WIPs, same handle as here (and as ffnet).

“I’m not certain that this is the best idea.”

The words had left Cullen’s mouth before he really had time to think about it. But it made sense, as the Inquisitor paused, halfway through rolling a glove over the Anchor on the palm of her hand. She turned to him, her black tresses of hair following in a dizzying motion behind her. Evelyn Trevelyan frowned – but it was more thoughtful than any. Her ice blue eyes lingered on his, and he felt the familiar warmth flush in his cheeks as she didn’t attempt to hide her reading of him. As if she’d given up, or perhaps to simply fill the gap of silence in the wake of his words, she said – in that trilling soprano of her voice, “you agreed to this a week ago.”

She had that way of not sounding accusatory, but rather thoughtful; and it was true, Cullen _had_ agreed to it. He was honestly not sure  _why –_ he could remember the way she’d strode into his office, so immediate from a mission that he hadn’t even received word to gather at the war table. So soon, in fact, that he could immediately spot the intruder in the form of a bright orange leaf lodged amidst her midnight tresses, something that vaguely looked like dirt streaked across a cheek. And she’d asked so earnestly, almost  _excitedly –_ how could he possibly say no?

Cullen raised a hand to the back of his neck. This woman. Not that she needed to learn how to fight on her own, she could handle herself spectacularly, if there was anything he’d learned in the last six months. She wasn’t like his other charges, the other mages he’d come to observe; whereas they were complacent, even in wake of the Blight several years ago, Trevelyan was _feisty._ Perhaps it was the Free March in her that had hardened her beyond his expertise when it came to Fereldeners. So how could he express his attempts to  _protect_ her? Even then, the words he attempted to say caught in his throat, his feeble excuse that she was a  _mage_ and therefore shouldn’t need proper training dying in his tongue.

But the Inquisitor, Bless Andraste, could at least discern what his own voice couldn’t properly express. “You have the Templar training too, and could prevent-“

“-anything extraneous from happening?” He finished for her, his voice low, imploring. She gave one nod, and her black ringlets bounced with the movement. And then with an easy, sweeping motion, the Inquisitor gathered her hair, securing it in place so that it fell loosely behind her in one, long strand.

“Precisely,” was her trilling voice, as she reached over and drew a blade from the rack. The resulting keen of metal echoed in the hollow chamber of choice, bouncing over the stone walls and into his ears. Cullen quickly realized his mistake as he watched her; for a smile crept on her lips – Maker, her  _smile,_ so carefree, that lit her face and made her seem so  _jubilant -_ and for a second he had to remind himself that he was standing there, probably gawking. Luckily, she spoke again, rousing him from his rooted position to the ground. “Now, I believe we had an arrangement?”

With a resigned sigh, he tore his eyes away as he drew his own blade, a lower yet just as sturdy keening filling the room in harmony to her own. Having the blade in his hand at least was familiar, almost like a rooting to his comfort zone, as he dangerously spiraled  _out_ of it. Trevelyan too, must be feeling out of place – certainly seeing her in the absence of her gold-tipped staff was jarring enough, but the manner in which she held her blade was still new, still mildly unsure, and all other thoughts disappeared as he watched her wrist tense.

With practiced ease, he blocked her downward slash several milliseconds before it could get even near his flesh.  The resulting sound near deafening, yet somewhat soothing to the Commander’s ears. Certainly familiar, he felt his initial trepidation dissolving as he sank down into his knees, centering himself before giving a quick thrust of his own. She twisted out the way, her black curls following after her, before she recovered and lunged again. Once, then twice, she attempted to catch him, but the second hit he met with one of her own, the resulting impact having her stumble a bit over her feet.

He couldn’t help it, now; he could feel the grin on his lips, perhaps she could begin to see the betraying fondness in his face.

“Don’t slash so recklessly,” he breathed. She met his eyes with something that was a pitiful attempt at indignation.

“The practice dummies don’t exactly put up a fight.”

A chuckle burst from his lips, and something like a satisfied smile spread on her lips. Maybe …? But his thoughts were cut short as she lunged once more, and he was quickly thanking the Maker for all his prior training.

She was growing more confident, he could feel – her stance began to shift, her slashes becoming an extension of herself. She was never  _awkward_ with her sword, but it was clear that she wasn’t used to relying on it. A couple times, Cullen swore he could see green rim the edge of her gloves, but it was probably in reaction the adrenaline of their sparring.

As she stumbled back once more at their connected blows, he couldn’t help but to dart a foot out to correct her stance. Something that began to form into what was suspiciously sounding like a swear – and Cullen steadied her, catching her back with his hands before she’d fallen over completely. Her eyes met his imploringly, but he’d let go by then, the sensation of vaguely damp fabric yet surprisingly soft flesh beneath it burned into his brain.

They continued like that for a while – each time Cullen fixed something, the craving to  _touch_ her almost drove him to correct her  _entirely._ She was magnificent, a triumphant smile permanent in her cheeks as he knew she was getting the hang of it. She was mesmerising, as every movement was somehow graceful, especially as she did a perfect gallop backwards to avoid his next blow. “Good,” he crooned, and another grin tugged at her lips.  _Maker._

His thoughts washed away once more as she lunged, catching her attack with one of his, and this time she barely stumbled. On and on it went, a symphony of metal and movement and theirbreathing, growing more heavy and ragged. And somehow, before he knew it, he was against a wall, a glint of steel pointed at his throat.

“Well,” Trevelyan said, her breaths coming disjointed and almost fatigued, “I appear to have you at an advantage.”

The strength began to drain from his limbs – especially as his eyes traced the corner of her blade, up the shaft and her torso, and to her face.

His heart swelled.

Her hair had begun to fall from the haphazard updo, falling in perfect ringlets and waves around her face. Her face was flushed, tinged pink, her pale spotting of freckles more pronounced than before. Beads of sweat lazed their way down her face, moisture making her face glisten. Her lips were parted, languid yet serrated breaths huffing from her mouth. And then her  _eyes._ Maker, her  _eyes,_ the startling shade of ice blue, triumph and exhilaration dancing in the way she regarded him. Desire spiked in his veins, his heart doubling in tempo, and it had nothing to do with being on the other end of her blade.

He swallowed, raising his hand hesitantly. Her eyes darted to the appendage, watching as he placed his hand on her wrist. Cullen couldn’t keep the half grin from tugging on his lip as he carefully twisted her hand, just enough to angle it properly at his throat. A soft ‘ _oh’_ came from her, the single syllable vibrant in the air. At once, he was all too aware of his hand on hers, the gentle lilt of her voice, her  _breathlessness,_ her smell…

He gave one, light tug, pulling her to him, the sword clattering by their feet. He was met with no resistance as she quite willingly stumbled forward, having forgotten everything he’d done to help her be stable on her feet. A hand reached to catch her, landing at her waist.

She was so close.  _So close._ He watched as her eyelids fluttered, and for a brief, terrifying moment, he wondered if he’d misread her – if he’d betrayed her by complying to his stuttering heart, the deep desires he’d been trying to hide from her.

And then one of her own hands reached up, a trail of fire erupting from her fingertips as they traced his arm, the front of his chest – and it was all he needed to pull her closer, to close the gap between their lips.

A breath feathered against his mouth first – a mixture of surprise and contentment. He gripped her closer, closer, pressing her body against him, the hand on her back beginning to trace lazy circles into the small of her back. She gasped and a hand balled into his undershirt, before it released and raised – to his neck, his jaw; he was sure at one point a moan may have came from his lips, but he hardly cared. And then her hand was in his hair, tangling and untangling into his curls, the sensation somehow soothing to him. The other hand twisted into his, carefully maneuvering their fingers until they interlaced – and her hands were  _small,_ he realized, but they fit in his.

He parted his own lips slightly, letting his tongue wet along the edge of hers. She made a sound of contentment before she complied. He shyly met her tongue with his, tasting her, exploring every crevice.

And then they parted, his inhale of breath relieving a bit of the physical pressure, but the _mental_ one still entirely overwhelming. His heart fluttered and he swore he may pass out from the  _release and giddiness_ within him. Like a school boy. Like a lovesick teenager, he thought in hindsight – and he even took pride in how much redder her face was, how her lips were raw and how her eyes were wild.

“Cullen.” Maker, even his name was perfect from her lips.

He couldn’t help but to smile – he could feel the corner of his lip twitching, a sudden nervous shyness overtaking his senses.

“I – I should’ve,  _may_ … I?”

And then the grin was on her face again, so beautiful, so  _radiant,_ as he pulled her in once more.


End file.
